


Eva

by LocketShoru



Category: Saint Seiya, 聖闘士星矢: 冥王神話 | Saint Seiya: The Lost Canvas
Genre: Angst, Found Family, Gen, Griffon Minos' POV, Oneshot, Saint Seiya Week 2020, Trans!Minos, musings, no beta we die like gold saints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25686412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LocketShoru/pseuds/LocketShoru
Summary: [Day 1 / Childhood, Nostalgia] The good in her would have been his sunflower fields, if he had lived.
Relationships: Griffon Minos & Pisces Lugonis
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5
Collections: SAINT SEIYA WEEK 2020





	Eva

**Author's Note:**

> You should listen to [Nightwish's Eva](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tspgqtWA4HA) while reading this. Because your feelings are my city now.  
> Saint Seiya Week 2020 Day 1, with childhood and nostalgia for our themes, almost a full two hours late! It'll be more MiAlba later. I have all my prompts already figured out. Also it's finals week so sweet Persephone fuck me blue. (And as for why I haven't answered literally anyone trying to interact with me, my exec dysfunction and covid means I am basically dead emotionally. I'm only managing this because I'm on a damn deadline I can't argue with. I'm sorryyyyyyy. ;~; )

He awoke to the grey dawn, sorrow in the air and the sweet, torturous laughter slipping through his mind like a knife. Oh, to only dream of summer, of the clipping of the horses as they rode, longbows in hand, across the mooring highlands that some part of him still sang out his sorrow for. 

He rose, slipped into a shower and as quickly back out of it, wringing his hair as he went. Locks as silver as the snow, his eyes as red as blood from the crying. Or perhaps, red because of the blood. Either seemed possible, seemed likely. The curtains drawn across each window closed by unseen hands as he passed, and he ignored them. Soon would be the coming of war. Soon, on that grey horizon, would be the cruel taste of loss, of hopelessness, of death so profound even the Spectres who could still find it within themselves to be kind shied away.

Ah, some things were not worth becoming monsters for. He slipped out of the temple, staring at the snow which had come overnight. The Meikai was mercurial about such things, and it snowed rarely, even in the temples near Cocytus. Especially with his dislike of it, the mess and the cold that was better suited to a girl left far, far behind him.

He wondered, for a brief moment, how many corpses could be sleeping under that snow, undisturbed, undiscovered. Nothing had trampled the snow, nothing had brushed it away. As perfect and pretty as a portrait, and just as useful in what it had to say. It only snowed here when either the Judges wanted it - and of course they didn’t, they had all found cold and abandoned it for the warm slickness of blood - or when war approached. When war approached, there wasn’t anything that anyone could do.

He wondered what that girl might have done, if she’d lived. If she had approached the snow with cautious love, that boy on her heels, and dove in to play. He had been far too old for playing when that girl still drew breath. He wondered if part of her was buried here.

He turned away, and returned to Ptolomea, took his cup of coffee from the table where he’d left it to cool, ignored the way it burned his throat as it went down. For a day like this, he would need it. He slipped into his office, to see what the man of yesterday had left the man of today. He couldn’t say they were the same man, not always, not now. Not when he slipped the knife into his throat every night, listening to that sweet, torturous laughter.

The Minos of yesterday had picked a few sunflowers from the garden, that secret garden he’d called into existence on his sorrow, on her grave, and had placed them into a pitcher vase at the corner of his desk. At the centre of his bouquet was a single rose, a single sorrow. Blue at the centre, the tip of each petal black and splattered with stars, laced neatly with striations of red and orange and palest pink. He could have named every constellation in the sundown sky in that rose, and he kept it together with its companions of noonday sun. 

“I could have been a better man, you see, for her.” His voice floated down to the flowers, yellow acrylic and sundown sorrow. “But she is gone, and so are you, and I am here. I suppose I could be a better monster, for you.”

Oh, sweet, torturous laughter. Scarlet locks like fire against that mooring sky. He could see the wildgrasses in his eyes, as heather reflected in hers. A longbow in each of their hands, arrows drawn but not yet ready to shoot. She was his princess, as he could now claim Judge, and when sweet, torturous fire softly warned him that heavy is the heart that wears the crown, she hadn’t bid him any mind. She was loved.

He wondered, if only a little, if Lugonis would have loved the monster he made of his younger self’s grave. Shed the crown of a princess for the mantle of a Judge, burned fury-hot from her ashes. Heather burned and lavender bloomed, and Lugonis, gentle, strict Lugonis who had loved her, who had never known him, was dead. His fire had found its rest elsewhere. Minos wished he knew where.

Maybe then, he could have buried the princess he once had been by the side of the only man who ever could have loved a monster.


End file.
